Max Schreck

Visionary German expressionist film director F.W. Murnau holds many distinctions, among them having directed the first (and, in the minds of many, best) vampire movie ever, 1922's silent classic Nosferatu. Unable to secure the rights to Bram Stoker's Dracula, Murnau simply changed the title and the name of his main bloodsucker, Count Orlock. In the lead he cast an unknown actor, Max Schreck. So little is known about Murnau's leading man, as a matter of fact, that some wonder if Schreck -- the word means "shriek" in German -- was even the leading man's real name.

Director F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu, A Symphony of Horror, the granddaddy of vampire thrillers, is easily the most intelligent, though unauthorized, adaptation of Bram Stoker's 1890 novel Dracula. To characterize Nosferatu (which is airing this week on WXEL-Ch. 42 and Turner Classic Movies) as a great horror film, a great silent film or a great German film is to unnecessarily limit its achievement. Nosferatu is generally regarded as one of the most important movies of any genre, era or place, a masterwork of expressionistic style, technical innovation and nightmarish dread that continues to inspire filmmakers today.

In Hollywood, history is hokum. If reality doesn't fit into three-act melodrama, it gets forced. They add a dash of the mythic, tack on a happy ending with swelling musical accompaniment, and cover up the whoppers with an attitude of high seriousness. Sheesh. Anyone who uses movies to learn history is in for one twisted education. That's why it's so nice, for a change, to herald a couple of films that chronicle the lives of historical characters, yet make no presumption about the veracity of the events.

The movie Traffic ends wordlessly, with one of the simplest yet most satisfying scenes in recent memory. Tijuana vice cop Javier Rodriguez sits in the stands of a small stadium, watching kids play baseball at night under the lights. The camera holds on Benicio Del Toro, the marvelous character actor who etches a stirring portrait of Rodriguez in the film. Del Toro says nothing and does little. He just watches that game. Yet you want that shot to go on forever. It's like a balm that soothes the burns left by Traffic's corrosive criticism of our nation's doomed war on drugs.

Director F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu, A Symphony of Horror, the granddaddy of vampire thrillers, is easily the most intelligent, though unauthorized, adaptation of Bram Stoker's 1890 novel Dracula. To characterize Nosferatu (which is airing this week on WXEL-Ch. 42 and Turner Classic Movies) as a great horror film, a great silent film or a great German film is to unnecessarily limit its achievement. Nosferatu is generally regarded as one of the most important movies of any genre, era or place, a masterwork of expressionistic style, technical innovation and nightmarish dread that continues to inspire filmmakers today.

The movie Traffic ends wordlessly, with one of the simplest yet most satisfying scenes in recent memory. Tijuana vice cop Javier Rodriguez sits in the stands of a small stadium, watching kids play baseball at night under the lights. The camera holds on Benicio Del Toro, the marvelous character actor who etches a stirring portrait of Rodriguez in the film. Del Toro says nothing and does little. He just watches that game. Yet you want that shot to go on forever. It's like a balm that soothes the burns left by Traffic's corrosive criticism of our nation's doomed war on drugs.

"The camera is like a vampire," says director Elias Merhige. "When it fixes its gaze on a subject, it drains that subject of flesh and blood. It reduces the subject to a shadow. And the shadow becomes immortal, outliving the subject." A strange notion from a guy who makes his living behind the camera. Yet it seems appropriate for someone who has just filmed Shadow of the Vampire, based on the fictitious conceit that silent-movie director F.W. Murnau hired a real-life vampire to play the lead in Nosferatu and then, in lieu of pay, let him feed on cast and crew.

Ever since an obscure actor named Max Schreck put the bite on a maiden`s neck in the 1922 German silent film Nosferatu, vampires have been big box- office business. Hollywood took its cue a decade later and turned Hungarian Bela Lugosi into the most famous moneymaking bloodsucker, whose visage has now become a motion picture cliche. Gaunt John Carradine became Count Dracula during the 1940s in a pair of fright films, while British actor Christopher Lee added physical presence and a taciturn, animal cunning to the role during the 1960s and 1970s.

Calling all kids 6 and up: What if one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus fell off your dad's roof and Dad had to put on the outfit and get in the sleigh and finish Santa's deliveries, and you got to go with him and see Santa's workshop at the North Pole, and meet the elves. Pretty neat, huh? Then what if you found out the job wasn't temporary (the fine print in that Santa Clause), that your dad had actually turned into Santa Claus? The Santa Clause turns out to be a sweet surprise, true to the Santa myth but updated and saved from gooeyness by Tim Allen's smart-aleck turn as the dad in question.

TONIGHT: Music gets big with Big Shirley at Rose's, 754 Washington Ave. A high-energy 10-piece funk and soul band, these are no shrinking violets. Having performed with War, Kool & the Gang and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Big Shirley is cutting a phat and phunky swath through the Southeast this fall. Call 305-532-0228. Miami architect Carlos Zapata speaks about his recent work at 6:30 p.m. at the Wolfsonian Museum, 1001 Washington Ave. Zapata is known for his sleek and innovative designs in wood, steel, glass, concrete and stone; recent projects include Concourse J at the Miami airport and the Albion Hotel in Miami Beach.

"The camera is like a vampire," says director Elias Merhige. "When it fixes its gaze on a subject, it drains that subject of flesh and blood. It reduces the subject to a shadow. And the shadow becomes immortal, outliving the subject." A strange notion from a guy who makes his living behind the camera. Yet it seems appropriate for someone who has just filmed Shadow of the Vampire, based on the fictitious conceit that silent-movie director F.W. Murnau hired a real-life vampire to play the lead in Nosferatu and then, in lieu of pay, let him feed on cast and crew.

Visionary German expressionist film director F.W. Murnau holds many distinctions, among them having directed the first (and, in the minds of many, best) vampire movie ever, 1922's silent classic Nosferatu. Unable to secure the rights to Bram Stoker's Dracula, Murnau simply changed the title and the name of his main bloodsucker, Count Orlock. In the lead he cast an unknown actor, Max Schreck. So little is known about Murnau's leading man, as a matter of fact, that some wonder if Schreck -- the word means "shriek" in German -- was even the leading man's real name.

In Hollywood, history is hokum. If reality doesn't fit into three-act melodrama, it gets forced. They add a dash of the mythic, tack on a happy ending with swelling musical accompaniment, and cover up the whoppers with an attitude of high seriousness. Sheesh. Anyone who uses movies to learn history is in for one twisted education. That's why it's so nice, for a change, to herald a couple of films that chronicle the lives of historical characters, yet make no presumption about the veracity of the events.

High above Chicago, staring into a Great Plains sun blazing from the west, Michelle Pfeiffer confirms all speculation: the sad, weary brow; the perfectly casual dark blond hair; the icy-blue eyes; the mouth -- without lipstick -- petulant, ripe and mischievous. But beauty isn`t a crutch Pfeiffer has wanted to lean on. "If I felt that (glamor) was all that audiences expected from me or really wanted to see, I would be upset about that," Pfeiffer says, settling into her chair with a cappuccino, her feet up on the hotel room radiator.